


and i didn't move an inch

by eugenides (newamsterdam)



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: 5 Times, Character Study, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-18
Updated: 2014-01-21
Packaged: 2018-01-09 03:37:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1140969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/newamsterdam/pseuds/eugenides
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times Leonard McCoy told Starfleet to go fuck itself. And one time he couldn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So this is probably going to be far longer than any 5 times fic has the right to be, but what can you do. The characters/pairings apply to the entire fic, not just this immediate chapter.
> 
> There are vague mentions of assisted suicide in this chapter.

**i. a time he couldn't**

No one’s signed a legal form with pen and ink for a hundred and fifty years, but Leonard prints out his divorce papers anyway. He takes his engraved fountain pen—the date of his medical school graduation glinting at him in the dim light, mocking him—and writes out his name with a steady hand.

It’s more cathartic than he expects, seeing his three names gleaming back at him. So he keeps going—prints out his father’s death certificate, the deed for the house that no longer belongs to him, his medical license. He traces over every mention of his name in dark ink, his hands never shaking though he takes a swing of whiskey in between each page.

He prints a holo on paper, watching the image flatten and gazing at it like he’s never seen it before. He can’t remember being that happy, can’t imagine a time when he would’ve grabbed Jocelyn around the waist and clamped his mouth over hers like he’d been trying to seal a deal—a deal that’s undone, now.

When he can find nothing else, he pours the alcohol over the pages and strikes a match. He watches with heavily-lidded eyes as the remains of his life go up in smoke.

He walks away from Georgia, after that, thinking idly that maybe one day he’ll retire there. Maybe one day it’ll want him back.

\--

Three weeks later he finds himself in Kentucky. The idea had come to him like a fever dream. With nothing else to do, he could walk the Kentucky Trail. But that idea was as stupid and foolish as any he’s had lately, so now he’s slumped down at a bar with a flask and his fountain pen tucked away in the pockets of his jacket.

The man sitting next to him makes no comment, passes no judgment. He’s wearing a charcoal-colored uniform, and his eyes are the same pale, steel blue that the insignia on his collar shines in the antique lamplight of the bar.

Two hours ago, he’d made Leonard an offer. He’s waited patiently for a response since then, nursing a tall glass of whiskey and honey.

Leonard thinks he might respect this man, this Captain Christopher Pike of Star-fucking-fleet. He carries himself like a soldier but speaks like a diplomat. He drinks his liquor harsh but tempered for taste. There’s grey in his hair and wrinkles on his face but he’s healthy and fit and looks like he’s taken care of his health.

Leonard also thinks he might hate him.

The seconds tick by on the old-fashioned clock hanging above the bar. Five minutes past midnight and Pike sets down his glass and turns back to Leonard with a critical look.

“No one’s going to force you,” he says in that too-calm voice of his. “You realize that, right? Whatever you decide to do from here on out is your decision.”

Leonard wants to laugh in his face. He wants to tell Pike that he’s never had a choice, hasn’t made any real decisions since he loaded a hypospray with just-too-much morphine. Even that had felt like compulsion, looking into his father’s pale blue eyes.

This has never been a choice.

“I just want to be a doctor,” he mutters, more for his own benefit than Pike’s.

“You’re more than that, McCoy.” Pike sounds resigned and rueful at once. “Starfleet Medical’s had a file on you since you first published on neurografting. This isn’t a draft—it’s an invitation.”

Leonard stares blankly down at the PADD Pike had passed towards him earlier. The first screen displays an image of San Francisco—sunny, with the Golden Gate Bridge framing the picture even as smiling, good-looking Starfleet cadets dressed in red walk across the almost too-green lawn. They look like children, to him.

He flicks the screen with his index finger. Starfleet Medical HQ, a gleaming white building, shows up next. And then a page of specifics, his own name gleaming up at him amidst lines of housing options and course plans and future career options. Medical officer. Researcher. Surgeon. Epidemiologist. Medical diplomat.

For a brief moment, he can imagine himself in any of those roles—all of them. Practicing medicine on a daily basis, discovering new medications and cures for diseases, honing his skills and saving lives.

Then something like a vice settles around the pit of his stomach and squeezes. A voice in his head—one he almost can’t hear—hisses out _failure, quitter, murderer_. He shudders.

San Francisco isn’t going to be a utopia. It’s not going to offer him redemption. And the sooner he gets his head around that fact, the less disappointing things will be.

Of course, as soon as he has that thought he realizes he’s already made his decision.

“Where do I sign?” he asks Pike gruffly.

Pike doesn’t smile. He doesn’t look triumphant. He just casually reaches over and nudges the PADD until it displays the right page. He pulls a stylus out of his jacket pocket and hands it to Leonard.

“Wait,” Leonard finds himself saying. “Could you have it printed?”

\--

He keeps the printed enlistment forms folded into thirds and tucked into his jacket, next to his flask and fountain pen. He makes his way to Iowa on a bus, keeping himself drunk effectively the entire journey.

He finds the shuttle, boards it without comment, and then locks himself in the bathroom.

Why did he think he could do this? Why did he think launching himself into space was an appropriate response to the shitshow his life has become? Why didn’t he think to refill this damn flask before he boarded the flight?

He thinks back to the recruitment forms. The stars as knowledge and possibility, new opportunities and the final frontier.

The very thought of space makes the walls seem too close, makes his heart speed up and his breathing stutter. He can’t do this. He can barely make it through a flight across one country, he can’t go any further. He’s trapped.

Earth holds nothing for him, now, but he’s never going to break its atmosphere. It’ll kill him, first.

He sinks down against the wall and tries to still his breathing, tries to calm his mind.

This was your choice, the weight of the papers in his pocket remind him. Your penance.

Starfleet isn’t possibility. It’s punishment.

Space is disease and danger, wrapped in darkness and silence…


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Details for this chapter are bastardized from a bunch of different Memory Beta sources on TOS Bones' early career. The basic situation on Dramia II was mentioned in the Into Darkness phone app.

**ii.**

Dramia II isn’t what Bones is expecting. 

It’s his first off-world assignment, and he decides from the moment he starts packing his bags that this is a trip to be endured and not enjoyed. It’s a medical mission, which is better that most of his colleagues have gotten—at least he doesn’t have to play first aide-jockey to a bunch of overexcited Engineering and Command cadets. Small mercies, right?

(“Shut _up_ , Bones,” Jim laughs at him when he voices these opinions. “You’re _excited_. You want to go fight the big bad disease.”

Bones throws a pillow at his head, but that’s not the point.)

Three weeks later he finds himself onboard the _USS Republic_ , working with one Christine Chapel. She’s a cadet, too, a nurse at the academy clinic. But she’s also got a ferociously acute scientific mind, and Bones finds it easier to work with her than any of his senior officers.

He’s beginning to think he should apologize to Jim, for giving him so much shit about not being able to follow orders.

\--

“What do you mean we can’t go down there?” He doesn’t recognize the strain in his voice, how whiny he sounds. 

Commander Velasquez eyes him coolly. “Watch yourself, Cadet,” she says mildly. Bones grimaces, tugs at the sleeves of his Science Blue shirt, glares at his probationary Lieutenant’s stripes.

“Forgive me, Commander,” he grinds out. “But I was under the assumption that the point of this mission was to cure the Saurian virus. I can’t well do that if all the patients are planetside and I’m stuck up here.” 

Velasquez has dark eyes and hair that’s just beginning to gray at the temples. She has the same straight-backed stance as every senior officer Bones has ever encountered, but he’s seen her with patients. She’s stern but kind, reminds Bones a bit of his own grandmother. It’s an uncomfortable comparison. 

“We have our orders, Cadet. And as capable a doctor as you are, you still have a lot to learn about Starfleet. We wouldn’t let anything happen to endanger more lives. _I_ wouldn’t let that happen.”

Bones can’t help but roll his eyes. “So you won’t endanger anyone else, but you’ll let the people who’re already dying stay that way?”

“You’re dismissed, Doctor McCoy.” 

Bones can’t even take proper leave; he just turns on his heel and marches out of Velasquez’s office.

\--

“You’re sure the cure will work?” Chapel asks him, later.

Bones nods. “You double-checked my work yourself, Christine. It’ll work.”

\--

He’s not sure how he survives the shuttle-trip down to the surface of Dramia II. The pilot is another cadet—someone named Sulu, apparently—who’s making a delivery drop and doesn’t realize that Bones and Chapel are aboard. Or maybe he does. He’s almost purposefully oblivious.

The hospital isn’t hard to find, and no one questions two Starfleet officers in blue when they say they’ve brought a cure to the virus that’s been devastating the population. 

Bones and Chapel treat two hundred cases that day, either directly or by instructing the Dramian doctors. 

There isn’t an instantaneous recovery from the symptoms or the debilitating effects of the disease, but scans show that the virus itself retreats within hours of treatment. 

He’s flushed with excitement, with accomplishment. Fuck Starfleet regulations, Bones thinks triumphantly. He’s saving these people.

“Doctor?” Chapel asks him when he passes her in the hallway. “Are you alright?”

“Just fine.” Why is she even asking him?

The back of her hand comes up against his forehead. It feels like ice. “Leonard!”

The world is fuzzy, after that.

\--

“You little shit.”

The voice is the first thing Bones becomes aware of. He can hear the faint noises of a biobed’s monitors, beeping away as heart rate, breathing and temperature are monitored. He’s in a medbay. 

He wants to open his mouth, wants to speak. But his throat is hot and itchy and entire world seems to spinning around him even though his eyes are closed.

“I can’t _believe_ you. It’s always ‘don’t change the flightplans without permission, Jim,’ or ‘messing with engineering is dangerous, Jim.’ But when you want to break the rules it’s just fine, is that it?”

“Jim,” he manages to rasp out, though he can’t imagine how Jim could be here. He’s back on Earth, isn’t he? And Bones is lightyears away. 

Jim lets out a small noise, something like a hiccup. “Yeah, Bones?” he says softly, after a moment.

“Shut up,” Bones grumbles.

A soft hand comes down on his forehead, brushes away his sweat-slick hair.

“Okay, Bones. You just go back to sleep.”

\--

He’s not sure how long it’s been when he finally opens his eyes, when he can breathe without feeling like he’s gulping down fire. He sits up gingerly, blinks in the face of the too-bright lights.

“Hey. Welcome back.” He turns to the side and there’s Jim, sitting on a chair next to his bed. He’s shed the jacket of his cadet reds and he’s got a PADD balanced in his lap.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Now that Bones takes in his surroundings, he realizes this isn’t the hospital on Dramia II. If he didn’t know any better, he’d swear he was back in…

“Bones, this is the academy med center. I practically _live_ here, remember?” Jim quirks a brow, grins. But Bones can see the circles under his eyes, the worry lines creasing his forehead.

“How long?” 

Jim sighs. “A week, give or take. It took them eight days to get you back here in the first place. And all the while that gorgeous blonde nurse was apparently arguing with them to let her use your own cure on you.”

“Did they let her?”

Jim actually laughs. “Yeah, eventually. After the reports from Dramia II came in, saying what a miraculous recovery the patients were making.” He punches Bones gently in the shoulder. “You’re something else, you know that?”

Bones shrugs. His insides still feel a bit fried, and now that he knows what happened, his brain is already cataloguing how his symptoms might be a human variation of what was happening to the Dramians. 

He must have drifted, because when he finally looks up Jim’s leaning in very close. His eyes are wide and his stare is slightly reproachful.

“Don’t fucking do that to me again, Bones,” he says sternly. “Be a genius super-doctor, save everyone you can. But don’t let this happen again.”

Bones opens his mouth, but he doesn’t know what to say.

Jim takes his hand and squeezes. “Please?”

Bones can only nod. He doesn’t bother to say that this is the most hypocritical thing that Jim’s ever asked of him. He just thinks that Jim’s undershirt is creased and his eyes are ringed and his hair is mussed, like he’s been sleeping in that chair. 

He’s never been very sure what Jim is, to him. First he was a constant patient, then a drinking buddy. Finally it’s come to a point where they spend most of their waking hours together. Jim is… Jim. He doesn’t need another word for it.

“Okay, Jim,” he says finally.

Jim smiles, bright and wide and almost too-perfect. He leans in and kisses the top of Bones’ forehead. “Good,” he says, “that’s good.”

\--

Bones is released from the hospital a few days later.

After that, the official report comes in—officially confirmed as a Lieutenant, Doctor McCoy is credited with ‘pivotally assisting’ with the situation on Dramia II.

He and Chapel publish on the cure a few months later.

Instead of disciplining him, Starfleet gives him a fucking commendation.


	3. Chapter 3

**iii.**

It takes only an instant, really, to decide to take Jim along. It takes Jim himself only a few days to save the earth, and maybe the entire quadrant along with it. Yet, somehow, it takes the admirals three weeks to call him in for a disciplinary hearing.

Bones stands in front of the council of Medical officers, tugging at the jacket of his Cadet reds. Though they’ve been back on earth for weeks, they still haven’t graduated. Everyone’s still trying to decide what’s to be done about—well, about _everything_.

“Step forward, Doctor McCoy.”

The voice is sharper than Bones expects, and he jumps slightly as he moves to obey. The lights are bright, shining directly in his eyes. There are five people before him—two human women, both captains; a tired-looking Vulcan male who probably didn’t look quite so old two weeks ago; an Andorian who sits placidly, watching the proceedings; and finally, the admiral. 

“My name is Philip Boyce,” the old man says gravely. “I’ll be presiding over this hearing. Before we begin, do you have any questions?”

 _Shouldn’t all of you be treating patients?_ McCoy thinks darkly. But he just shakes his head.

“What was that, Doctor?”

“No, sir,” he grits out. 

Boyce nods, clears his throat. “Cadet McCoy, Leonard Horatio. You are called before this disciplinary board to discuss the actions occurring just before what has been designated the Narada Incident. You were assigned to serve aboard the _USS Enterprise_ in response to a high alert. Is this correct?”

“Yes,” Bones says. He tries to keep going, but Boyce cuts him off.

“And, instead of boarding the _Enterprise_ with the rest of your class, you cited medical code in order to bring aboard one Cadet Kirk, James Tiberius. Is this also correct?”

“Yes. Kirk was my patient—”

“According to Commander Evans’ report, Cadet Kirk was on academic probation. He also had no recorded symptoms of the virus you were treating him for until you boarded the shuttle _Galileo_.”

“That’s correct, sir.” His teeth are clenched so tight he doesn’t even know how he gets the words out.

“You realize that, as representatives of Starfleet Medical, this board must regard any improper use of medical code with the utmost prejudice.”

“Yes.”

“And that falsifying medical records could result in the loss of your license and commission.”

“I didn’t falsify anything!” The words are out before he can stop them, but it’s the truth. He doesn’t bother to correct himself.

One of the female captains quirks a brow. “Oh? Then, tell us, Cadet McCoy—how did James Kirk contract the Melvaran flea virus while on academy grounds?”

Bones takes a deep breath. When he speaks, he enunciates each word as clearly as possible. “I injected him with it.”

Five pairs of eyes bore into him. Boyce clears his throat again. 

“Explain,” he says.

“We were going to leave Ji— _Captain_ Kirk behind. And on a technicality. So I gave him the damn vaccine against the virus. He contracted the symptoms, not the disease itself. I took him aboard the _Enterprise_. I think y’all know what happened after that.”

No one speaks for a long moment. Emboldened, Bones continues, “And y’know, every here is mighty hung up on some technicality. Considering that the Fleet’s best contingency plan was to throw cadets at a problem until it went away, especially. If you’ll care to notice, Captain Kirk’s still alive.”

 _Which is better than I can say for hundreds of cadets_. It’s a dark thought, but one he’s been holding onto for weeks. He couldn’t save everyone aboard the _Enterprise_ , but the ship itself and the majority of her crew made it back. And he knows who to thank for that. He’ll never regret his decision to take Jim along.

Boyce looks like he’s about to say something, but before he can Bones hears the hiss of the door opening behind him. Well-trained little cadet that he is, he doesn’t turn to look. But soon enough a young women in Operations Red is wheeling in… Pike. 

Bones swallows convulsively. He’d had to operate on Captain Pike under the worst of conditions. He’d done all he could to maintain the older man’s spine and nervous system, but the damage was severe in the best cases. Even now, after weeks with the best of care, Bones couldn’t say for sure whether Pike would walk again.

“Admiral Pike,” Boyce says evenly. “To what do we owe the interruption?”

Admiral, Bones thinks dimly. And then he takes a good look at Pike, and notices the white on his jacket and the stripes on his sleeves. _Admiral_. And just when the hell did that happen?

“Hello, Phil. You want to know something funny?”

“Always, Chris.”

Pike huffs out something that might be a laugh. “Well, I’m sitting in my office, going through cadet files, trying to get assignments in order for graduation. And I noticed something.”

“What was that?”

Bones doesn’t believe it, for a moment. They’re talking over his head like he’s not even there.

“McCoy here’s still got a disciplinary hold on his records.”

“Interrupting his hearing isn’t exactly going to help that.” And Boyce, the absolute bastard, starts to laugh. And then Pike joins in, and Bones is starting from one of them to the other and trying to figure out what the hell is going on.

“Excuse me,” Bones says sharply, “But whether it’s a slap on the wrist or you revoking my commission, could we get this over with?” 

Boyce looks at him and actually smiles. Then he glances back as Pike. “You were right,” he says.

“Always am,” Pike replies.

“About _what_ ,” Bones demands. 

Boyce takes a step back, mutters something to his four companions. They all seem entirely too amused for Bones’ liking. Finally, Boyce comes forward again.

“It’s a good thing you can stand your ground, Doctor,” he says. “You’re going to need that skill, in the years to come. Being CMO of the flagship’s no small matter.”

“What,” Bones says intelligently.

“Neither are field promotions,” the Vulcan says. “And yet we have it on good authority that you acquitted yourself with skill and authority, as was required of you.”

“Thanks.” He’s slightly awestruck, standing there and feeling as though everyone’s in on a joke and no one’s willing to explain it to him. 

“This will be going on your record, McCoy,” Boyce says blithely. “But I very much doubt it will hinder your career.”

“Okay,” he says, intelligently. “Then what was the point?”

“Regulation,” one of the captains says, waving a hand. “Just be happy we aren’t Command. They’d call you up in front of the entire academy.”

“Right,” Bones says, and his cheeks burn. 

“You’re dismissed, Doctor.” Boyce says, not unkindly. “And between you and I, I hope you’re good at mixing drinks. It’s a skill you’ll likely need.”

No kidding.

\--

Pike follows him out of the meeting room, into the hall. 

“Sir?” Bones asks, when the admiral clears his throat.

“You’ve just been told something that’s still technically classified,” he says.

“Who’m I gonna tell, sir?” he asks.

Pike just lifts a brow.

“You’ll never hear this from me again, McCoy, but I’m glad you ended up here. And not just because you saved my life.”

“That was Jim and Spock—” Bones starts to protest, but Pike silences him by lifting a hand.

“Just take the compliment, McCoy. And know that, as the man who saw you as low as you were three years ago, I’m proud of you, now.”

Bones bristles. It sounds too much like a father-son talk, something he doesn’t want or need any more of.

“Save it for Jim, Admiral.”

Pike dips his head in acknowledgment. “Speaking of, he’s about to get a comm. You might want to be there when he does.”

Bones doesn’t need telling twice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I imagine that Starfleet Medical's full of a bunch of smart asses. All of whom can tend bar.


End file.
